Beginnings
by Prophetic Fire
Summary: "You're supposed to be dead." "So are you." "And yet here we are." Dogma and Fives. An Alternate Lives of Dogma story. An Elysian Fields story.


"You're supposed to be dead."

"So are you."

"And yet here we are."

Silence settled around them again. Fives cast a glance at Dogma, taking in his even leaner frame and tired expression. Here they were indeed. What was he supposed to say to that? Yeah, I outlived two deliberate attempts on my life by my own brothers, how've you been? By the way, you look awful? He opened his mouth to say _something, anything,_ but Dogma beat him to it.

"I heard about Tup."

White-hot pain twisted in Fives' chest. For a moment, every nerve in his body went numb. It had only been a few months; that wound was still fresh and raw. Tup's name seared him like hot shrapnel to his heart. He tried to take a breath, but his throat closed against the pressure.

"I'm sorry," he choked out. He didn't know why he said it. Sorry to whom? To _Dogma?_ To himself?

To Tup?

He fought back the stinging tears. How dare Dogma bring that up. How _dare_ he say Tup's name. How dare he force Fives back into those memories, out in the open like this with no bucket to hide his face. How _dare_ he––

A light touch brushed Fives' leg. He jumped.

Dogma pulled back, hands up, nonthreatening. "Sorry, sorry…" He cast his eyes down, drawing his arms in close and shifting slightly further away from Fives on the bench. "I just…thank you for trying to help him." The corner of Dogma's mouth twitched ruefully. "I'm glad he…found someone."

Silence again. Fives cast his eyes about the park. The morning light filtered softly through the trees. Birds called sweetly, and a gentle breeze rustled the bushes. A few people jogged over the paved paths, but the air still held that hush of dawn. Of new day. It was peaceful. Peaceful like he'd never known. Even with Dogma of all people beside him.

"So what do we do now?" Dogma's voice cut the quiet. "There's no reg manual for this."

Fives' chest ached again. A dull ache this time, from a long-since scarred wound. He hated to admit it, but there had always been… _something_ …about Dogma, that reminded him of…of…that pulled him to Dogma. That had made facing Dogma's firing squad feel like such a betrayal. That had made Dogma's court martial so unbearable. And it wasn't fair, it wasn't fair to Dogma to compare him to…to… But the moment Dogma had pulled Fives' own blaster from his belt, and done what none of them could do, _could've_ _done_ , what not even…what none of them could've done, Fives had felt the tug of something in his heart. And now, on this bench, in this park, by the strangeness of chance, here they both were. And maybe that meant something.

"My ARC training sergeant had a saying he liked to use. 'Adapt and overcome.' My…batchmate…liked to remind me of it, when we faced new challenges."

Dogma snorted. "Well I'm no ARC trooper."

"You could've been," Fives blurted out. Why had he said that? _Dogma?_ An ARC trooper? But he'd felt somehow that it was the right thing to say.

Dogma turned to look at him, incredulously.

"I mean," Fives sputtered, "they train you to follow a different, ah, set of rules, you're more independent, not focused so much on the _right_ way to do things, because there's more than one _right_ way, so you get to, uh, follow your heart."

There was an awkward pause. Fives cleared his throat. "I just…think you would've been good at that."

More silence lingered between them. Fives stared at the ground. Then Dogma gave a short, humorless chuckle.

"We're all just scared kids, aren't we?"

Yes, yes they were. Yes, he still was. Still afraid of fading into nothing. Of being forgotten. Of not being allowed to be _Fives._

Of being alone.

He wondered what Dogma was afraid of.

Fives glanced at Dogma again. The sunlight through the trees dappled Dogma's face, echoing his tattoo. Echoing. Well. He supposed… _he_ …would want Fives to adapt to the situation again. Not worry about if this was right. Follow his heart. His heart, which tugged at him with every shimmer of golden light across Dogma's face.

Slowly, he turned his hand palm up and settled it between them on the bench. "Maybe," he said softly, "we don't have to be scared alone."

The birds sang their bright melodies, and the breeze brushed across his face, and the morning bloomed full of promise. And softly, tentatively, then stronger and sure, he felt Dogma's fingers entwine with his own.


End file.
